“A charming way of showing it,” said Peter.
“You’re hurt; you’re smarting,” she said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t say that.”
“She has spoiled everything,” exclaimed Peter. “Just when——”
All through their talk Nellie had been conscious of a dual stirring, not only in him—that was clear enough—but in herself. Not many weeks ago she would certainly have had her whole sympathies enlisted on his side. She would have fanned, secretly and stealthily no doubt, the flame of his resentment against Silvia, and with the same hidden action have insinuated into his mind that there was somebody who was eager to console, to help him to forget—one who gave him a welcome.... Even now some breath of woodland irresponsibility, the morality of Dryads and Satyrs, swept over her, with the whispering of wild things and the stirrings in the bushes. Like sought like there, deriding the consequences to others. Should she twang that string, let the wind blow on that harp in the trees, she knew well that something would answer it. He was hurt and sore; there were woodland balms....
Something within her again jerked back the finger that hovered over the string, ready to pluck it, and turned her hand into a shield instead, that prevented the wind from making the harp vibrate. Silvia had her harp, too, and he had begun, ever so faintly, to vibrate in answer to Silvia’s harp, and not to hers.... In this second impulse there was compassion for Silvia, there was motherhood. She made her choice.
“You can’t say that she spoiled it, my dear,” she said. “You know how she loved you when you asked her to marry you.”
Peter had a frown for this.
“I thought——” he began.
“I know what you thought. Silvia very likely told you that she wanted just to be allowed——”
“I never told you that,” said he quickly.